Act IV
A cross-roads surrounded by pine woods. Moonlight.
The WITCH stands waiting.
OLD LADY. Well, at last, there you are.
WITCH. You have kept me waiting. Why have you called me?
OLD LADY. Help me!
WITCH. In what way?
OLD LADY. Against my enemies.
WITCH. There is only one thing that helps against your enemies: be good to them.
OLD LADY. Well, I declare! I think the whole world has turned topsyturvy.
WITCH. Yes, so it may seem.
OLD LADY. Even the Other One—you know who I mean—has become converted.
WITCH. Then it ought to be time for you, too.
OLD LADY. Time for me? You mean that my years are burdening me? But it is less than three weeks since I danced at a wedding.
WITCH. And you call that bliss! Well, if that be all, you shall have your fill of it. For there is to be a ball here to-night, although I myself cannot attend it.
OLD LADY. Here?
WITCH. Just here. It will begin whenever I give the word——
OLD LADY. It’s too bad I haven’t got on my low-necked dress.
WITCH. You can borrow one from me—and a pair of dancing shoes with red heels.
OLD LADY. Perhaps I might also have a pair of gloves and a fan?
WITCH. Everything! And, in particular, any number of young cavaliers who will proclaim you the queen of the ball.
OLD LADY. Now you are joking.
WITCH. No, I am not joking. And I know that they have the good taste at these balls to choose the right one for queen—and in speaking of the right one, I have in mind the most worthy——
OLD LADY. The most beautiful, you mean?
WITCH. No, I don’t—I mean the worthiest. If you wish, I’ll start the ball at once.
OLD LADY. I have no objection.
WITCH. If you step aside a little, you’ll find your maid—while the hall is being put in order.
OLD LADY. [Going out to the right] Think of it—I am going to have a maid, too! You know, madam, that was the dream of my youth—which never came true.
WITCH. There you see: “What youth desires, age acquires.” [She blows a whistle]
Without curtain-fall, the stage changes to represent the bottom of a rocky, kettle-shaped chasm. It is closed in on three sides by steep walls of black rock, wholly stripped of vegetation. At the left, in the foreground, stands a throne. At the right is a platform for the musicians.
A bust of Pan on a square base stands in the middle of the stage, surrounded by a strange selection of potted plants: henbane, burdock, thistle, onion, etc.
The musicians enter. Their clothing is grey; their faces are chalk-white and sad; their gestures tired. They appear to be tuning their instruments, but not a sound is heard.
Then comes the LEADER OF THE ORCHESTRA.
After him, the guests of the ball: cripples, beggars, tramps. All are pulling on black gloves as they come in. Their movements are dragging; their expressions funereal.
Next: The MASTER OF CEREMONIES, who is really THE OTHER ONE—a septuagenarian dandy wearing a black wig which is too small for him, so that tufts of grey hair appear underneath. His mustaches are waxed and pointed. He wears a monocle and has on an outgrown evening dress and top-boots. He looks melancholy and seems to be suffering because of the part he has to play.
The SEVEN DEADLY SINS enter and group themselves around the throne as follows:
| PRIDE | COVETOUSNESS |
| LUST | ANGER |
| GLUTTONY | ENVY |
| SLOTH | |
Finally the PRINCE enters. He is hunchbacked and wears a soiled velvet coat with gold buttons, ruffles, sword, and high boots with spurs.
The ensuing scene must be played with deadly seriousness, without a trace of irony, satire, or humour. There is a suggestion of a death-mask in the face of every figure. They move noiselessly and make simple, awkward gestures that convey the impression of a drill.
PRINCE. [To the MASTER OF CEREMONIES] Why do you disturb my peace at this midnight hour?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Always, brother, you are asking why. Have you not seen the light yet?
PRINCE. Only in part. I can perceive a connection between my suffering and my guilt, but I cannot see why I should have to suffer eternally, when He has suffered in my place.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Eternally? You died only yesterday. But then time ceased to exist to you, and so a few hours appear like an eternity.
PRINCE. Yesterday?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Yes.—But because you were proud and wanted no assistance, you have now to bear your own sufferings.
PRINCE. What have I done, then?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. What a sublime question!
PRINCE. But why don’t you tell?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. As our task is to torture each other by truth-telling—were we not called “heroes of truth” in our lifetime?—I shall tell you a part of your own secret. You were, and you are still, a hunchback——
PRINCE. What is that?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. There you see! You don’t know what is known to everybody else. But all those others pitied you, and so you never heard the word that names your own deformity.
PRINCE. What deformity is that? Perhaps you mean that I have a weak chest? But that is no deformity.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. A “weak chest”—yes, that is your own name for the matter. However, people kept the disfigurement of your body hidden from you, and they tried to assuage your misfortune by showing you sympathy and kindness. But you accepted their generosity as an earned tribute, their encouraging words as expressions of admiration due to your superior physique. And at last you went so far in conceit that you regarded yourself as a type of masculine beauty. And when, to cap it all, woman granted you her favours out of pity, then you believed yourself an irresistible conqueror.
PRINCE. What right have you to say such rude things to me?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Right? I am filling the saddening duty which forces one sinner to punish another. And soon you will have to fulfil the same cruel duty toward a woman who is vain to the verge of madness—a woman resembling you as closely as she possibly could.
PRINCE. I don’t want to do it.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Try to do anything but what you must, and you’ll experience an inner discord that you cannot explain.
PRINCE. What does it mean?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. It means that you cannot all of a sudden cease to be what you are: and you are what you have wanted to become. [He claps his hands.
The OLD LADY enters, her figure looking as aged and clumsy as ever; but she has painted her face and her head is covered by a powdered wig; she wears a very low-necked, rose-coloured dress, red shoes, and a fan made out of peacock feathers.
OLD LADY. [A little uncertain] Where am I? Is this the right place?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Quite right, for you are in the place we call the “waiting-room.” It is so called [he sighs], because here we have to spend our time waiting—waiting for something that will come some time——
OLD LADY. Well, it isn’t bad at all—and there is the music—and there is a bust—of whom?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. It’s a pagan idol called Pan, because to the ancients he was all they had. And as we, in this place, are of the old order, more or less antiquated, he has been put here for us to look at.
OLD LADY. Why, we are not old——
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Yes, my Queen. When the new era opened [he sighs], we couldn’t keep up with it, and so we were left behind——
OLD LADY. The new era? What kind of talk is that? When did it begin?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. It is easy to figure out when the year one began—It was night, for that matter; the stars were shining brightly, and the weather must have been mild, as the shepherds remained in the open——
OLD LADY. Oh, yes, yes—Are we not going to dance here to-night?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Of course, we are. The Prince is waiting for a chance to ask you——
OLD LADY. [To the MASTER OF CEREMONIES] IS he a real Prince?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. A real one, my Queen. That is to say, he has full reality in a certain fashion——
OLD LADY. [To the PRINCE, who is asking her to dance] You don’t look happy, my Prince?
PRINCE. I am not happy.
OLD LADY. Well, I can’t say that I find it very hilarious—and the place smells of putty, as if the glazier had just been at work here. What is that strange smell, as of linseed-oil?
PRINCE. [With an expression of horror] What are you saying? Do you mean that charnel-house smell?
OLD LADY. I fear I must have said something impolite—but then, it isn’t for the ladies to offer pleasantries—that’s what the cavalier should do——
PRINCE. What can I tell you that you don’t know before?
OLD LADY. That I don’t know before? Let me see—No, then I had better tell you that you are very handsome, my Prince.
PRINCE. Now you exaggerate, my Queen. I am not exactly handsome, but I have always been held what they call “good-looking.”
OLD LADY. Just like me—I never was a beauty—that is, I am not, considering my years—Oh, I am so stupid!—What was it I wanted to say?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Let the music begin!
The musicians appear to be playing, but not a sound is heard.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Well? Are you not going to dance?
PRINCE. [Sadly] No, I don’t care to dance.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. But you must: you are the only presentable gentleman.
PRINCE. That’s true, I suppose—[pensively] but is that a fit occupation for me?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. How do you mean?
PRINCE. At times it seems as if I had something else to think of, but then—then I forget it.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Don’t brood—enjoy yourself while youth is with you and the roses of life still bloom on your cheeks. Now! Up with the head, and step lively——
The PRINCE grins broadly; then he offers his hand to the OLD LADY, and together they perform a few steps of a minuet.
OLD LADY. [Interrupting the dance] Ugh! Your hands are cold as ice! goes to the throne] Why are those seven ladies not dancing?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. How do you like the music, Queen?
OLD LADY. It’s splendid, but they might play a little more forte——
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. They are soloists, all of them, and formerly each one of them wanted to make himself heard above the rest, and so they have to use moderation now.
OLD LADY. But I asked why the seven sisters over there are not dancing. Couldn’t you, as master of ceremonies, make them do so?
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. I don’t think it would be of any use trying, for they are obstinate as sin—But please assume your throne, my Queen. We are going to perform a little play in honour of the occasion——
OLD LADY. Oh, what fun! But I want the prince to... escort me——
PRINCE. [To the MASTER OF CEREMONIES] Have I got to do it?
OLD LADY. You ought to be ashamed of yourself—you with your hunch!
PRINCE. [Spits in her face] Hold your tongue, you cursed old hag!
OLD LADY. [Cuffs him on the ear] That’ll teach you!
PRINCE. [Jumps at her and knocks her down] And that’s, for you!
All the rest cover their faces with their hands.
PRINCE. [Tears off the OLD LADY’S wig so that her head appears totally bald] There’s the false scalp! Now we’ll pull out the teeth!
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Enough! Enough!
He helps the OLD LADY to rise, and gives her a kerchief to cover her head.
OLD LADY. [Crying] Goodness gracious, that I could let myself be fooled like that! But I haven’t deserved any better, I admit.
PRINCE. No, you have deserved a great deal worse. You should leave my hunch alone, for otherwise hell breaks loose—It’s a miserable thing to see an old woman like you so foolish and so degraded. But, then, you are to be pitied—as all of us are to be pitied.
ALL. We are all to be pitied!
PRINCE. [With a sneer] The queen!
OLD LADY. [In the same tone] The prince!—But haven’t we met before?
PRINCE. Perhaps—in our youth—for I am old, too. You had too much frippery on before—but now, when the disguise has been taken away—I begin to distinguish certain features——
OLD LADY. Don’t say anything more—don’t say anything more—Oh, what have I come to—what is happening to me?
PRINCE. Now I know: you are my sister!
OLD LADY. But—my brother is dead! Have I been deceived? Or are the dead coming back?
PRINCE. Everything comes back.
OLD LADY. Am I dead or am I living?
PRINCE. You may well ask that question, for I don’t know the difference. But you are exactly the same as when I parted from you once: just as vain and just as thievish.
OLD LADY. Do you think you are any better?
PRINCE. Perhaps! I am guilty of all the seven deadly sins, but you have invented the eighth one—that of robbing the dead.
OLD LADY. What are you thinking of now?
PRINCE. Twelve years in succession I sent you money to buy a wreath for mother’s grave, and instead of buying it you kept the money.
OLD LADY. How do you know?
PRINCE. How I came to know of it is the only thing that interests you about that crime of yours.
OLD LADY. Prove it!
PRINCE. [Taking a number of bills from his pocket] Here is the money!
The OLD LADY sinks to the ground. A church bell begins to ring. All bend their heads, but nobody kneels.
LADY IN WHITE. [Enters, goes up to the OLD LADY, and assists her in rising] Do you know me?
OLD LADY. No.
LADY IN WHITE. I am Amelia’s mother. You have taken the memory of me away from her. You have erased me from her life. But now you are to be wiped out, and I shall recover my child’s love and the prayers my soul needs.
OLD LADY. Oh, somebody has been telling tales to that hussy—then I’ll set her to herd the swine——
The PRINCE strikes her on the mouth.
LADY IN WHITE. Don’t strike her!
OLD LADY. Are you interceding for me?
LADY IN WHITE. It is what I have been taught to do.
OLD LADY. You hypocrite! If you only dared, you would wish me buried as deep as there are miles from here to the sun!
MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Down with you—monster!
[As he touches her with his staff she falls to the ground
Again the scene is changed while the curtain remains up. The bust of Pan sinks into the earth. The musicians and the throne with its attendant sins disappear behind pieces of; scenery that are lowered from above. At last the cross-roads with the surrounding pine woods appear again, and the OLD LADY is discovered lying at the foot of a sign-post.
WITCH. Get up!
OLD LADY. I cannot—I am frozen stiff——
WITCH. The sun will rise in a moment. The cock has crowed. The matin bells are ringing.
OLD LADY. I don’t care for the sun.
WITCH. Then you’ll have to walk in darkness.
OLD LADY. Oh, my eyes! What have you done to me?
WITCH. I have only turned out the light because it troubled you. Now, up and away with you—through cold and darkness—until you drop!
OLD LADY. Where is my husband?—Amelia! Eric and Thyra! My children!
WITCH. Yes, where are they? But wherever they may be, you shall not see them until your pilgrimage is ended. Now, up and away! Or I will loose my dogs!
The OLD LADY gropes her way out.
The court-room. In the background is the desk of the presiding judge, decorated in white and gold with the emblems of justice. In front of the desk, covering the centre of the floor, stands a big table, and on it are placed writing-materials, inkstand, Bible, bell, and gavel.
The axe of the executioner hangs on the rear wall, with a pair of handcuffs below it and a big black crucifix above.
The JUDGE enters and makes his way into the room on tiptoe. The bell rings. The gavel raps once on the table. All the chairs are pulled up to the table at once. The Bible is opened. The candles on the table become lighted.
For a moment the JUDGE stands still, stricken with horror. Then he resumes his advance toward a huge cabinet. Suddenly the doors of this fly open. A number of documents are thrown out, and the JUDGE picks them up.
JUDGE. [Reassured] This time I am in luck! Here are the accounts of my guardianship; here is the contract for the lease—my report as executor—all of it! [The handcuffs on the wall begin to clank] Make all the noise you please! As long as the axe stays still, I won’t be scared. [He puts the documents on the table and goes back to close the door of the cabinet, but this flies open again as soon as he shuts it] Everything has a cause: ratio sufficiens. This door must have a spring with which I am not familiar. It surprises me that I don’t know it, but it cannot scare me. [The axe moves on the wall] The axe moved—as a rule, that foretells an execution, but to-day it means only that its equilibrium has become disturbed in some way. Oh, no, nothing will give me pause but seeing my own ghost—for that would be beyond the tricks of any charlatan.
The GHOST enters from behind the cabinet; the figure resembles in every way the JUDGE, but where the eyes should be appear two white surfaces, as on a plaster bust.
JUDGE. [Frightened] Who are you?
GHOST. I am not—I have been. I have been that unrighteous judge who is now come here to receive his sentence.
JUDGE. What have you done then, poor man?
GHOST. Everything wrong that an unrighteous judge might do. Pray for me, you whose conscience is clear——
JUDGE. Am I—to pray for you?
GHOST. Yes, you who have caused no innocent blood to be shed——
JUDGE. That’s true; that’s something I haven’t done. And besides, as I have always obeyed the letter of the law, I have good reason to let myself be called a righteous judge—yes, without irony!
GHOST. It would, indeed, be a bad moment for joking, as the Invisible Ones are sitting in judgment——
JUDGE. What do you mean? Who are sitting in judgment?
GHOST. [Pointing to the table] You don’t see them, but I do. [The bell rings; a chair is pushed back from the table] Pray for me!
JUDGE. No, I won’t. Justice must take its course. You must have been a great offender to reach consciousness of your guilt so late.
GHOST. You are as stern as a good conscience.
JUDGE. That’s just the word for it. Stern, but just!
GHOST. No pity, then?
JUDGE. None whatever.
GHOST. No mercy?
JUDGE. No mercy!
The gavel raps on the table; the chairs are pushed away.
GHOST. Now the verdict is being delivered. Can’t you hear?
JUDGE. I hear nothing.
GHOST. [Pointing to the table] And you see nothing? Don’t you see the beheaded sailor, the surveyor, the chimney-sweep, the lady in white, the tenant——
JUDGE. I see absolutely nothing.
GHOST. Woe unto you, then, when your eyes become opened as mine have been. Now the verdict has been given: guilty!
JUDGE. Guilty!
GHOST. You have said it—yourself! And you have already been sentenced. All that remains now is the big auction.
Curtain.